


Comforting Thoughts (Or Whatever)

by MaelynnMeep



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Family, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, Pre-Series, Whump, a drugged up Dean is not necessarily a happy Dean, hurt!Dean, majorly flashbacks to pre-series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaelynnMeep/pseuds/MaelynnMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Remember when we were kids and you tripped off Bobby's porch?" You ask because you can't think of anything else to say.</em> When Dean's mind wanders, it really goes places. </p><p>Character Study, Whump and One-Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comforting Thoughts (Or Whatever)

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make it so it could fit into any season, being really vague about the present (which I could do considering what state Dean's in), but admittedly I've been re-watching seasons one and two recently.

Being on meds sucked.

Being on meds usually meant you got hurt. Actually, forget usually – definitely. There was no way in hell either of them would waste the good stuff on anything less than a wound that  _needed_ the good stuff to stave off the screaming.

The meds especially sucked when waking up after the initial effects, high as a kite in the backseat of a car. You stare for a while before the whole of your entire life comes back to you (along with the powerful appreciation that this really is the  _good_  stuff for you to forget that in the first place), and you kick yourself mentally at forgetting the setting of basically your entire childhood. You try to sit up, get some form of bearings, barely managing to see Sam at the wheel. It's enough to make your effort seem worthless. You're out of it, barely able to move. Sam's at the wheel.

Procedure. A normal bad day for the Winchesters.

If you're hurt enough to need the  _good_  stuff, Sam's there, always there, at the wheel, clutching it so hard his knuckles turn white. It's about as much a tradition as it is to check your hypothesis, again managing enough will power to turn your head and – yup – the giant's hands are doing their best to dent the damn thing.

You try to make some sort of noise, possibly a motion, to let him know that you are actually alive back here – which is actually stupidly pointless considering Sam is Sam and has probably been checking up on you every two minutes. Something must come through because Sam's glancing at you quickly through the mirror, brown eyes widening in a familiar look that you have no ability to process at the moment, muttering something about a stopping in ten miles and sounding like he'd like to say a lot more. You nod, barely, trying to curl up in the backseat and failing in the way you've always done since you were a teenager.

The road jumps a bit beneath you, the familiar cracking sound pattern of the rare bit of concrete highway calming your nerves a bit. You never considered it before, but isn't the road to Lawrence paved with concrete?

When Sam pulls off the main road into the parking lot is indecipherable to you. You only notice when he opens the door near your feet and starts helping you out of the car that it stopped at all.

You've seen a lot of motels in your time and whatever isn't tourist trash is actual trash and this definitely falls into the latter category. Sam drags you into a room to sit on the closest bed, propping you up before rushing out of your line of sight. He's back before you can really inspect yourself for what's wrong, shoving bottled water toward you and demanding that you at least drink some. You do because he's worried and denying Sam when he's worried is like not feeding a puppy for a month.

He looks somewhat satisfied and you can't help but ask, "How bad?" because you feel like it's something you should remember and the fact that you don't is pissing you off.

His eyebrows do the funny thing at you where they look like they're going to fly off his face. "You don't remember?" He says and damn him if he actually looks half freaked to hell.

You roll your eyes before finding that even  _that_  makes you dizzy. "Dude, I can barely remember what year it is." You say, and it's the wrong thing, because the way he's looking at you is as if you just caught on fire. You groan and put your head in your hands. "Just tell me."

Sam snorts but there's no humor in it. "Where  _aren't_ you hurt?"

You glare at him, because that really isn't an answer and apparently your powers of intimidation aren't working (heck did they  _ever_  work on Sam? You doubt it) because he doesn't provide anything clearer than that. He starts getting your rag tag medkit prepared in front of you and you inwardly groan at how much he's pulling out. It must be shock  _and_  meds then because between the amount of stuff Sam's preparing to use and the amount of tension in his face you know it's not just bad but  _bad_. By now, through years of being torn down and stitched up, you can tell the difference. At least it's not  _bad_  bad; you can sit up (mostly) and Sam apparently doesn't feel obligated to drag your ass to a hospital. So far.

Some pills are slapped into your hands and you dry swallow them without really thinking about it. You must be on the declining end of whatever he gave you earlier for him to be handing them out so freely, you think as you wait for the new set to kick in. It does and you suddenly wish you were in a situation to enjoy it. Sam's all over you now, things just sort of blurring together as he manipulates you to where he needs to fix whatever's wrong with you this time. You comply limply, letting him take control as your head gets fuzzier.

He's using hydrogen peroxide on some part of you, which part alludes you (damn this really is the  _good_  stuff) but you notice the bright crimson in your vision and you silently thank him that he used that instead of alcohol. It's sad, you ponder, that you do actually have a favorite disinfectant, but ever since dad first used it on you the lack of stinging and the way it foams has always been fascinating, especially being as doped up as you are.

You remember that first real injury very vividly all of a sudden. Dad had left you on the side of the road with the car, commanding "Watch Sammy."  _Always_   _watch Sammy, protect Sammy, take care of Sammy._  Gladly, you'd think, both proud that dad gave you a job and sturdy in it. That was the way it always was. And had been when the damn thing dad had been chasing showed up out of nowhere and took a swipe at them though the car window. Several deep scratches on your person and a few salt rounds later the thing hobbled away wounded where your dad – you're pretty sure since your memory at that point gets a little hazy – finished it off.

Later on what you mainly remember of the incident is Sammy shouting something about a hospital and dad shouting something about taking care of it and vaguely being stitched up and staring at the foam of the peroxide.

You had been twelve.

Sammy's first real injury had ironically been the same year. He'd slipped on Uncle Bobby's wet porch after some rain and managed a broken arm and concussion. Sammy's best puppy eyes hadn't come close to preventing your laughter, which had gone on even as you woke him up every two hours throughout the night. It got even funnier on no sleep.

Every so often until the day he'd left you'd bring it up, just to see the roll of his eyes and get a laugh out of it. It was only until after, when you'd tried to talk to dad about it and he remained stone-faced, that you realized that it might not be as funny as you thought. That he'd hated it more than you knew. That you'd contributed to his leaving.

Sam had been eight.

In the present, you jerk your heard around a bit before opening your eyes, unaware that you closed them. Sam's a blurry form in front of you, doing god-knows-what. He looks up and stares at you blankly. "Remember when we were kids and you tripped off Bobby's porch?" You ask because you can't think of anything else to say.

Sam's brow furrows and he gazes at you oddly. "Yeah I banged my head and got a broken arm." He replies and you laugh.

"Yeah." You giggle madly and Sammy's rolling his eyes the way he always did and something seems to settle in the world. That thought makes you giggle again and you really don't know why.

"Damn, you really are stoned." Sam mutters.

"Hell yeah." You grin and he rolls his eyes again.

He hands you a belt and tells you to bite and then apologizes "in advance". You stare at the thing for a moment before understanding his meaning, putting the leather between your teeth and tensing up. Sam sucks in a deep breath.

That's really when the pain starts.

He's digging into your shoulder, obviously looking for something and your mind suddenly grasps at straws of thoughts,  _'Holy shit did I get shot?! How the hell did I get shot? What the hell where we hunting—"_  A wave of pain hits you and you let out a distressed huff of air.

"Sorry." Sam says from somewhere. It could be the moon for all you care.

You huff again to tell him that no he really isn't and somehow he gets your meaning and laughs wanly. He makes a motion and it just feels like he's stabbing you with a fire poker – which he might actually be. It's not a new pain and like always you shove all your energy into being somewhere, anywhere else.

Your mind pushes you into the backseat of the Impala. You're sixteen, Sammy's twelve and you're clutching an old shirt to your bleeding shoulder as tight as you can. You're in front watching as dad tosses your gun to Sammy in the back before flooring it. The thing (funny, in your memory the random monsters that injure you are always  _things)_ hits the back of the car, causing the entire thing to shift and Sam just starts  _cursing_.

It's hilarious in retrospect, thinking about how you and dad just paused completely in what you were doing to stare in disbelief at Sam, rolling down the window, shooting madly at the thing and cursing like a sailor. Sammy, who before had never allowed himself to say "damn" or "hell" unless he was really mad about something. All you really remember about that moment is thinking about how pissed he must've been.

Another moment, when you were eighteen and had gotten poisoned by another 'thing'. It hadn't been lethal, but who said anything had to be lethal for Sammy to not turn into a mother hen? He'd point-blank refused to go out to hunt it with dad, only working if he could do it in the room so he could keep an eye on you. They'd fought, by then Sam was fourteen and just really began learning how much he could get under dad's skin and how much dad was under his. But that… that had really been their first of their many signature fights. Sam had reluctantly won when you'd ran to the bathroom to throw up and collapsed on the floor.

Dad left. Sam stayed.

You'd ended up balled under the covers while Sam shoved medicine and soup down your throat. Everything was sweaty, hot and just plain gross before it got really dry, cold and gross. Fevers sucked that way. Between research and the occasional clipped phone call with dad, Sam stopped long enough to stare at you intently before announcing he'd be going out for a few minutes. You had mostly ignored him, half-asleep anyway.

He'd shown up about a blink's time later, with a few Seven Eleven plastic bags partially full of more medicine and ginger ale, but mostly several pints of ice cream. He tossed you one and you stared at it, loving the feel of the cold on your hands as you fought the instinct to put it on your forehead.

"Move." Sam had said suddenly, and you shifted on the bed to where he could sit against the headboard. And that's how you spent your "sick leave", as dad had later put it, eating ice cream and watching the MacGyver marathon on TV.

Sam pulls whatever it is he was looking for out of your shoulder, but you're shaking too much to notice what. He sounds pleased, so there's that. You're not dying.

Hur-freaking-ay.

He apologizes again before stitching, but honestly after the fire poker (or whatever) that's an easy pain. You slump some more into the bed, allowing him to do what he needs to and squeezing your eyes shut.

You had been twenty-two when you got mauled by that werewolf in Missouri. Not a just a thing in your memory. Not that time.

That time Sam had left.

It had been a few months after Sam's eighteenth birthday and the creature had jumped you and Sam in an area it hadn't supposed to have been, you pushing Sam out of the way. Sam had managed to shoot it just barely before it tore out your throat but not before it had attempted to tear out other parts. You weren't a big-have-to-get-to-the-hospital-right-now-mess, but you were injured a bit more than the normal. Sam had freaked and you'd called him a girl.

He dragged you back to the empty house you all had been squatting in at the time and thoroughly patched you up. Between the pain and the meds you had eventually passed out as Sam worked.

When you woke, Sam and dad had been screaming at each other. From later accounts on both ends, the fight had started on the subject of his injury. Dad had wanted to skip town and Sam had fought him on it, dad had yelled at him about disrespect and Sam had yelled back about the same thing, the argument had spiraled up and up the staircase into different subjects, from yelling to shouting, from shouting to screaming. The weight that broke the back of sanity in the argument had finally been the subject of Stanford, a subject you had done a very good job at mediating between the two about. So much for that.

There has only really been one time you froze at a situation. That was it.

The brutal end of the screaming had been the very final  _"if you walk out that door, don't ever come back"_ from dad and the earth-shattering  _ **"fine!"**_  from Sam.

Literally.  _Earth. Shat-ter-ing._

You remember gasping at that, forcing yourself to sit up, wanting to reason with Sam, talk Sam out of it. Sam had pushed you back down and told you to stay (like a dog, you'd thought later). "Sammy." You'd pleaded, hoping your eyes said all the things you couldn't right now, weren't in any condition to say right now. He had run a hand through his hair as he grabbed his bag and hadn't looked at you.

"I'm sorry, Dean." You had heard before the sounds of footsteps and a closing door. And that was the last you had heard from him for four years. You wrote, you called, every month for  _four years_  and never once heard back. Or held it against him.

Sam was gone.

Sammy had  _been_  gone.

You passed out again shortly after that and had woken to dad heaving you up to move to the car. Apparently shots had been heard and the body of the werewolf found. Sam had known but didn't want to move you in your condition. Dad needed everybody out of jail to get the job done and while normally you would have done what dad wanted while silently agreeing with Sam, this time you really didn't give a shit.

The few days after had been a blur as infection set in. Facts you know for sure of that time are few. For sure dad had solely taken care of you for the first time since you were eighteen. For sure he had to call in a doctor off the books to get some better antibiotics. For sure you had been asking for Sammy the entire time.

Later dad told you had been out of it for eight days.

Your brother had been gone for eight days. You barely let yourself get mad at the thought before forgiving him instantly.

All the same, it still didn't salve the ache over Sam being  _gone_.

Sam putting a wet towel on your head wakes you from your drug-induced flashback. Evidently he's done sticking sharp objects into you for the moment. He helps you settle on the pillows and under the blankets, and you let him because it's much more comfortable under there.

Sam's gone for a second before coming back and handing you something cold. You smirk at the Ben and Jerry's label as he sits next to you on the bed. He takes the remote and starts flipping through the channels. It's silent.

"Remember when we were kids and you tripped off Bobby's porch?" You ask again because there's something you have to say.

Sam rolls his eyes again, face still turned towards the TV. "Yeah."

"I'm not sorry I still tease you about it."

Sammy turns to look at you incredulously. His gaze softens at your smirk and he looks away again. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

**Author's Note:**

> This has been both the easiest going fic I've worked on and the one with the most drafts. Fifteen of them. All completely different. Some were actually more comedy and some were all over the place and eventually the grains settled on this and I really like it. The point of view happened by accident right from the beginning and I think that's what made it easier - not having to worry about saying Dean's name over and over, even though it's from his point of view. The word 'Dean' is actually only in there once because I snuck it in after the fact. Also, I'm not a doctor or a Winchester so my being very vague on injury procedure is both because Dean's pretty out of it and I only know what I've read/seen/done. However, a goal of mine in fanfiction though that has been accomplished is the correct use of hydrogen peroxide which (despite all other fan works) does not sting. It foams. So many people get that wrong. Geez. I used to use that stuff everyday. It was freaking fun. Oh and next time you're on a concrete road, enjoy the ride. The road to my mother's hometown is covered in spots of it. Lastly, anything subtle with a meaning was done on purpose. I promise you.
> 
> Beta: None. My apologies. I'd love to know if you spot something important but no "do you have spell check" questions or flames por favor.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the angst. All real ownership goes towards CW.


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